This is a perfect example of displaced kitsch, a pachyderm monument of propaganda with Eisenstein-Welles look and Stalin aesthetics of the thirties. How did they dare to make such a film in 1963?. The Yankees chew gum, the prostitute repents and cries, the students throw cocktail Molotov, the old man sweats and burns his farm, the camera pans down the swimming-pool and over the roofs, the palms and clouds are shot in short focus against the light, the peasant's conscience awakes and he joins the guerrilla, and the chief of police is fat. Everything is so outdated, schematic and overblown that eventually becomes naive and moving. No wonder that Coppola and Scorsese rediscover this film and call it a masterwork.
